TABLE OF CONTENTS

PRINT May 1987

WHERE THE BIRDS FLY, WHAT THE LINES WHISPER

From dark wine and the thousand roses there, the hour rushes into the dream of night.

And someone stands amazed amid the light. He cannot quite convince himself that he’s awake, he cannot make himself believe it’s not a dream. . . . They build up hours out of silver speech, and sometimes they will lift their hands up: so-; you think that somewhere far beyond your reach they’re plucking roses which you’ll never know. And then you dream.

—Rainer Maria Rilke

WHEN AN ARTIST who has followed a personal course for many years is at a certain point “discovered,” the recognition often comes first from younger artists and critics who are attracted to and identify with the individualist or “eccentric” quality of the work. Such is the case with Ross Bleckner, whose art is magnificently eccentric and individual. His paintings may be “in style” right now, but they are not stylish, and never have been.

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